


The Luck Bringers

by istia



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M, POV William Bodie, Zine: Roses and Lavender 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-01
Updated: 2000-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:12:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/istia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On New Year's Eve, Bodie experiences the Doyle family tradition of First Footing when, in a weak moment, he gives into Doyle's blandishments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Luck Bringers

He was drifting in a sensual tide comprising warmth, repleteness, and a dreamy sense of completion and safety. Pleasantly tired--and even more agreeably aching--in the aftermath of a fulfilling though nebulous encounter of some sweet kind, Bodie enjoyed to the hilt his state of total collapse. Lips quirked upwards, he cuddled up figuratively to the somnolent conviction that he could go on drifting like this for ever. Easing his limbs within the warm, familiar cocoon of the bed, he murmured in his throat as homey scents tickled his nostrils. His contentedness quotient upped itself a further notch. The only niggle that disturbed his blissful void was a vague sense of his idyll lacking a certain crucial presence.

Something crucial missing.

Eventually gathering impetus out of lethargy, he ventured a probing hand, and frowned when he encountered not the warm figure he expected, but cooling emptiness. An islet of alertness within the sea of remoteness that was his brain seized on a nagging sense of something being not quite right about that emptiness. A dim light, which he at last acknowledged was blazing beyond the dark haven of his eyelids, also sent warning signals. Not that any of it was important, he was sure. Life was perfect; nothing could mar it. The presence that should be there but was missing and the light that shouldn't be around but was present were connected, and would sort themselves out in due course without effort required from him. He yawned with languorous contentment, inhaling a lungful of that warm, scented air. He cuddled down once more, pressing his face not at all figuratively into the rumpled, fragrant softness, prepared to ignore all oddities as negligent within the lapping pool of contentment that was his mind, spirit, and body at rest together.

Certain distractions, however, were undeniably sounding difficult-to-ignore clamours for his attention. The trickles of cold that wafted down his bare back, for one, were becoming peremptory. He twitched, clinging to his torpid drowsiness as though it were an eiderdown. The warmth curling inside himself, however, beat a craven retreat before a sudden wash of cold air that drenched his flanks and buttocks and, bloody hell, flooded all the way down to the soles of his cringing feet. He dragged them up, toes scrabbling for the vestiges of warmth rapidly abandoning the mattress beneath him, and sent a flailing arm out on a mission to retrieve the warmth. Meeting only empty air on its brief reconnoitre, his arm hurriedly gave up its offensive sally and dropped into a defensive position over ribs that had just received a sharp jab.

In truth, this pleasurable business of being wrapped in a state of heightened sensual acuity seemed to be backfiring. He'd been catapulted from cocooned invulnerability to assault. Moreover, not only were his eyelids losing the battle to block out the light, but now, alas, his ears' defences were being overrun, too. A certain sound that he'd been at first able to dismiss as an annoying but negligible buzz was acquiring distressing clarity, along with an imperative that even the most valiantly resistant particle of his mind foreknew was going to be impossible to ignore.

"Bo-day! Stop snuffling into my pillow like a great wally and wake up. Oi! Bodie! Wakies!"

"Garray...Ray," he managed to snuffle.

He wasn't sure that string of sounds made sense, but he couldn't summon the energy to be overly concerned. Anyroad, he had confidence that his partner would get the message; sharp as a tack, Doyle was. Couldn't ever put anything over on him, which, while occasionally inconvenient, also let him trust that Doyle would work things out without further effort from Bodie.

And the gambit seemed to work. To Bodie's gratification, the awesomely cheery voice stopped and an iota of the warmth returned. A hand, which settled on his shoulder blade and stroked down his side and over his back and circled down to cup his buttock with a soft leisureliness, traced driblets of warmth in its path. He murmured in his throat again, ready to forgive the rude awakening, and pressed his backside suggestively against the disappointingly still palm and web of passive fingers.

Warmth, then, wafting against his cheek, too, as a voice, deep with a siren's sultriness, murmured, "Wake up, handsome. It's time."

"Uhmm...dime...come bed...."

He wiggled his bum once more to make up for the deficiency of his tongue, and pouted into his soft haven as the warm hand abandoned his pleasantly tingling skin.

The slap on his posterior shocked him into opening his eyes, which was, he immediately knew, a strategic blunder. Caught in a calculating green gaze, he blinked and tried to recoup. The sweet dark warmth being gone, he opted for defensive prickling.

"Hell, Doyle, what's crawled up your knickers, then? Can't a man enjoy his well-earned rest after a hard day's labour?"

Doyle, not unexpectedly, didn't retreat, but leaned even closer so his breath--peppermint scented; the old toad had even brushed his teeth--soughed against Bodie's cheek. Despite himself, Bodie felt his lids growing heavy again as he leaned into the lovely gust of warm, familiar breath.

The voice that accompanied the breath, however, was ominously brisk. "You didn't labour all day, though, did you? Had the day off. You lazed around the whole day and now it's gone midnight and the bells have rung and it's time to get up. Up, Bodie!"

Thin, hard fingers gripped Bodie's arms and pulled with a strength that still stunned and excited him even after six months of wrestling in his partner's bed as well as in the gym. Before Bodie could order his dazed thoughts, Doyle had him sitting on the edge of the bed and was flinging clothes onto the rumpled covers beside him.

"Jumper first. Up and at 'em, Bodie, time's a-wasting."

Pulling the polo-neck over his head with a resigned sigh, he emerged to stare down at the endearing sight of his partner kneeling before him on the floor, curly head bending forward. Feeling cheered, Bodie obligingly spread his legs apart for easier access.

"Dunno why I need my sweater on for that, but if that's what you fancy--"

He stopped as the head lifted and cool eyes rested on him with an expression that was clearly exasperation, not passion.

"Idiot."

Doyle bent again to his task of forcing Bodie's left foot into a dark sock.

Bodie slumped on the bed after tugging the bottom of the polo-neck down over his disappointed cock, and looked pensively down at the deceptively rounded softness of his partner's face. Much as he loved the man--and he could admit it now, if only privately, hard as it had been at first to reckon with this development--he couldn't say he ever understood him. Well, truth was, Bodie had long ago decided it was better that he not try to understand Doyle's often convoluted and inexplicably complicated thought processes. More often than not, it was easier just to ignore the possible why's and wherefore's of his partner's behaviour and deal directly with the whirlwinds Doyle managed to kick up with regularity. Whatever bee was in his bonnet this time would inevitably emerge, probably too soon for Bodie's peace of mind, and if anyone were going to feel the sting, it would be Bodie.

He heaved a long-suffering sigh, as loudly as he could. Doyle, predictably, ignored it.

"Right, there's your toesies toasty warm. Into your trousers, now."

Giving up the half-hearted effort to avoid whatever Plan his partner had concocted, Bodie settled for grumbling as he stood and picked up his dark cords.

"Here, where's me pants, then? I'm not meant to go frolicking bare-arsed, am I? I'll do meself an injury--"

A pair of Y-fronts sailing gracefully to a perfect three-point landing on his face put an end to that complaint, and he retreated back into sub-vocal mumbles. Yawning loudly once he was dressed, he stretched and ambled out to find his partner.

"We've not been called in, then?" he said perspicaciously, eyeing the rumpled, bare-footed figure involved with some arcane business in the kitchen.

Of course, Bodie considered anything done in the kitchen beyond cutting bread, opening tins, and poking sausages in a pan to be arcane. He yawned again, wondering whether it was worthwhile to get narked at his partner. Probably not, he decided, eyeing the long lean line of the back with the appreciation of, if not an aesthete, certainly a master sensualist.

"Right, here we are." Doyle turned around, juggling small bundles in his hands. "Into your jacket, Bodie. We don't want you catching a chill, do we?"

Bodie looked at his partner's bland face suspiciously. "Don't we? Why would I be likely to catch a chill? And why aren't you dressed for chills?"

"The youngest has to do it. Told you that." Doyle's tone was laced with spurious patience. "You ought to listen to me more often. Keep telling you that, too."

"Yeah, don't you just," he said, fervently.

Bodie fixed his partner with as unwavering a sternness as he could considering that Doyle was on the move.

"Let me get this straight. I was fast asleep in bed after having laboured for hours for your gratification, then I get brutally awakened, hoicked out of my nest, shoved into clothes, and warned about chills. Chills that, it appears, only I'm about to be subjected to. Now, what I want--and I want it right now, Doyle--is a good reason why I don't get back into my warm nest and let you get the sodding chill yourself."

"Here you go, mate." Doyle reappeared from the hall holding Bodie's grey leather jacket. "You'll be fine. Only takes a few minutes. Stop making a spectacle of yourself and get out there."

"Out there where?"

Distracted by Doyle's shoving a collection of small items into his hands, which he had to juggle not to drop, Bodie found himself at the open front door and being ushered outside.

"Wait--what's going on?"

Doyle stood blocking the doorway, hands set in the vicinity of hips on people with more meat on their bones, and exuding a patented, eyes-to-the-ceiling exasperation.

"First footing, Bodie. To bring us luck for the New Year. It's after midnight, see. It'll be fine, right down your alley--all you have to do is stand there, then knock on the door. I'll let you in in a minute. And don't forget to say it when you come in!"

The door shut in his face. Bodie gaped at the wood as the chill in the block's central hallway insinuated its first icy tendrils simultaneously down his neck and up his trouser bottoms. He looked down and flexed his toes reflectively in the dark socks. Trust Doyle to forget his shoes! Could do with boots for that matter, in this ice-house. It all came back to him with a dizzying rush: Doyle curled in the corner of the sofa this afternoon, all rumpled and vulnerable, reminiscing in a quiet voice, and himself gone terminally soft-headed, agreeing to anything the bugger wanted just to get that sad, distant look out of his eyes. Bloody Doyle and his old family traditions; load of superstitious rot. Now here he was stuck standing outside a--he juggled the bundles into his left hand and checked--locked door in the middle of the night. Doyle had promised that life with him would never be dull, but there was dull and then there was comfortable basking in the quietude of life with the man he loved...well, had it right there, didn't he? Never expected to love a man. And of all the men in the world, if it had to be a man, oh yes, it would be Doyle. His partner. His tough, prickly, complicated, sexual-dynamo of a partner. His. All his own. His Ray.

So, there it was: fate sealed. And here he was: freezing in the hallway, looking a complete prat, in the middle of a sodding January night. Unbelievable. No one but Ray Doyle could have done this to him. Though that was the entire point, wasn't it? No one for him but Doyle, and to hell with the consequences.

He looked down to check the most immediate potential consequence of this present folly, and discovered his dark-clad toes curled up defensively away from the chill floor. Cold as a witch's tit in this place; cold enough to freeze pipes, so what hope did a set of little toes have, eh? Deciding he'd suffered enough even to satisfy Doyle's bleeding family traditions, he raised a hand, rapped smartly on the door, and awaited his welcome into the warmth of Doyle's happy gratitude. And waited. And...waited.

The toes complained, or would have if they'd been blessed with ten tiny mouths. Baulked of the ability to vocalise their outrage, they instead twisted frantically, like a set of mute Lilliputian soldiers set adrift on an ice floe. Their CO lifted his hand and rapped with more determination on the solid door that barred himself and his troops from safety and warmth.

A door that remained ominously shut.

The commander sagged dejectedly as his infantry took the classic course of action and dug in for the duration. By this point, it was probably fortunate for all concerned that they were mute troops, since the mutterings along the lines that officers who took to the field without essential equipment--such as entrenching tools and spare keys--should be put up against the nearest witch's tit--that is, wall--and summarily shot, would have been very bad for morale, such as it was. The scene wouldn't have been pretty. Mutiny amongst foot soldiers could have serious consequences. The commander briefly considered ramming one set of infantry against the recalcitrant door, but thought better of it. The image of frozen troops breaking off in all directions like matchsticks might have had something to do with that decision.

Instead, it was the hand that was raised to do its duty one more time, but froze as the unmistakable sound of a wheezing piece of machinery struggling its way upwards hit his ears. The Edwardian-era (it seemed like) lift was making its ponderous journey with all due groans, squeaks, whines, and general mechanical complaints. Accompanied by--Bodie cocked his head--a tuneless, under-the-breath singing. "Auld Lang Syne" was Bodie's guess, reckoning by the mangled tune alone since the words appeared elusive, to put it politely, to the cracked tenor. This foreboding mix of sounds came nearer, and nearer.... Bodie held his breath, then cringed as the great metal cage clanged to a halt on Doyle's floor. The door squealed open, accompanied by a muttered admonition to be quiet, and footsteps rambled unerringly towards the stranded commander and his dug-in, mutinous troops.

Doyle was going to die. He was going to die slowly, with exquisite pleasure. Shaking away an abruptly intrusive image of Doyle caught on an extremity of pleasure, Bodie sternly reminded himself that it was his pleasure in the offing, not Doyle's. Focusing back on the predicament at hand, Bodie strained every sense with the hope that the uneven steps would halt at a door around the corner. When that hope was dashed with the appearance of a startling apparition all in red, Bodie straightened his shoulders and put on his best nonchalant look. Craftily pretending he had just arrived at his destination, he raised his hand as though he had been about to knock at the door, but had paused at the approach of the stranger....

"Bothie! Uh, Boddie, um...whatcha doing here, too?"

Staring in disbelief at the tall, scarlet figure, Bodie eventually conceded that he did, indeed, know the bloke resplendent in red moleskin trousers, red blazer, and pink shirt ornamented with a red-and-green tie featuring a rakish Mickey Mouse with party hat askew and champagne glass in paw.

"Escaped early, did you, Murph?" he asked, stunned at the vision.

"Nah, worked till six...didn't I?"

"Can't see how Santa could make his rounds without you to light the way."

"Oh. Ah hah! I get it! But, hey, wasn't that last week or something--?"

"Glorious," Bodie muttered.

Taking up the cudgels, he went on the offensive. "More to the point, what're you doing here, mate? Doyle doesn't take to unexpected visitors, you know."

He knew he'd made a mistake when the owlish eyes looked blankly around the corridor before settling on the door. "Doyle? Oh, yeah, that's right." He giggled.

Bodie stared.

The spate of giggles ended abruptly in a hiccough of such proportions that Mickey Mouse humped obscenely on the flat, pink chest. Bodie averted his eyes.

Murphy, with the strength and resilience of Macklin's pummelled finest, gained control of his breathing in short order, and said, succinctly, "Cafrine." He nodded his head sagely.

"Eh?"

Murphy lifted a hand holding a bottle and waved it gaily.

"Forgot the drink in the car, didn't I? Don't really need a leg-uppener--hic!--but she fancied just a bit more. Lady of m'dreams. Met her when I helped Doyle move in. Do anythink for her. Really. Anythink--hic!--a'tall." He nodded solemnly, then looked with unnerving clarity at Bodie. "You, too, eh, old son?"

Bodie twitched (figuratively, naturally), and summoned his best glower, which made his companion's round eyes become even rounder.

"Dunno what you're on about, you pissed twit. I was just passing...."

He trailed off as Murphy's eyes inexorably dropped down Bodie's neatly clad body to his socked feet, and a delighted grin curled Murphy's mouth impudently. Bodie's own eyes involuntarily looked down, too, and he shuddered--not entirely figuratively--as he saw his feet set like a pigeon-toed six-year-old's, with the toes of the left foot covering and dug into the toes of the right. A textbook-perfect manoeuvre, really, given the frigid operating conditions and the lack of essential equipment, but it's sadly true there's no pleasing some commanders. CO Bodie hastily deployed his troops in a widespread stance that radiated a readiness for action that might have thrilled Shusai, but didn't do anything to curb Murphy's cheerful disrespect towards the senior agent.

When the hiccoughing giggles quietened enough for Murphy to speak, he said, with amiable affection, "Silly sod, everybody knows--"

Bodie took hold of one vivid red arm and marched--well, shuffled--the taller man down the hallway, hissing, "Don't care what anyone thinks they know. You keep your trap shut and get back to your poor deluded bird. Ignorant turd. Don't you know any better than to keep a lady waiting? You watch yourself, Murph, or I'll make you draw so much overtime in Files that your precious Caffeine forgets what you look like!"

Looking not remotely chastened, Murphy pulled away at the turn of the hallway, and patted Bodie's arm with an unctuously commiserating gesture that made the manual corps of Bodie's company ache to deliver a definitive offensive manoeuvre of its own.

"'s all right, mate," Murphy whispered, theatrically, "never saw you." He laid a finger against his nose and tapped it with a conspiratorial wink, then added, "Nor your little bundles, neither!" and hiccoughed his shambling way off out of sight.

Gritting his teeth, Bodie cast an appalled look at the items clutched in his hand, forgotten since Doyle had thrust them into his grasp. As he marched determinedly back down the cold floorboards the length of the hall, he dejectedly regarded the crushed slab of marzipan-topped cake wrapped in bright silver foil, the big lump of coal, the aeroplane-sized bottle of Bacardi, and the five-quid note. He looked at the latter pensively. Trust Doyle not to give a bloke even enough for cab fare home. Not that he had any intention of abandoning the field to Doyle. Bloody hell! The sod was going to pay for this, he really was, and it was going to be sweet. Oh, yes, indeedy, Bodie was going to enjoy every second. And, right now, he was going to have that door open if he had to hammer it down, and then he'd get right to the important matter of teaching his partner a lesson he wouldn't soon forget....

Unfortunately for these exalted intentions, the door swung open at his first outraged tap, and his dudgeon entirely deserted him at the sight of tousled chest-hair peeking out from between the sides of a loosely belted, burgundy brocade robe. Bare legs and long, sinewy bare feet hinted at the further delights lurking beneath the scanty but elegant covering. Bodie's eyes slowly rose to the sensual, smiling face topped by the riot of curls that always made his fingers itch to touch. Feeling an idiot's grin settle on his face, he took a step forward into the desired warmth and welcome--only to be stopped by a hand placed flat-palmed against his chest.

"D'you have something to say, Bodie?"

"Let me in, Ray, it's bloody freezing out there. And you forgot my shoes! Said my toesies would be toasty, then you--"

"What're the magic words, Bodie?"

He eyed his no-longer-smiling partner, felt the warmth wafting out at him scented with sweet-smelling Doyle, looked down at the adamant hand barring his way, and surrendered.

"Happy New Year! Here." He tumbled the little bundles into Doyle's hands. "Sodding hell, the things I do for you. You can do it next year, mate. 'Just be a minute,' you said--"

"Has to be the youngest in the house, Bodie, told you that, for the luck to work."

Taking advantage of Doyle's full hands to get inside, Bodie shut the door behind himself and leant against it, pulling the pliant body against his own with practiced smoothness.

"I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but they only said that so you'd do the freezing instead of them."

He nuzzled at the freshly shaven cheek and moved down to the neck, which bent accommodatingly back for him, exposing the tenderness of the throat.

"All just superstition, anyway, but there you are, I did it for you, so where's me reward, eh?"

"It was for us, you incorrigible maniac. For luck for us starting our first year together. So we'll have warmth and food and money enough all year through." Doyle had somehow managed to rid himself of the bundles, and his arms slid around Bodie's back in one of those thrillingly powerful hugs. "Feels like home, now, anyway. Thanks, mate."

The kiss--ah, the kiss was sweet reward. In a matter of moments, Bodie was being divested of his jacket and paused only to hang it up before the brocade-outlined arse enticed him down the warm hall towards the softly lit bedroom. He followed, happy foot soldiers flexing in approval and anticipation, but stopped dead in the doorway.

The bed had been changed. Burgundy satin sheets the colour of Doyle's robe now graced the mattress. A mix of burgundy and navy pillows were plumped up invitingly, and the coverlet, turned down in welcome, was a matching navy satin. The room was lit only by a single lamp, and a tumbler filled with golden liquid was set on each bedside cabinet. Bodie raised his eyes to Doyle, standing by the far side of the bed and smiling gently across at him.

"Happy New Year, Bodie." He held out a navy brocade robe.

Bodie moved forward slowly, as though enspelled by the warm perfection of the room and the man at its heart. He knew himself to be in his right mind, though, as he reached out with calm deliberation and grasped the hand holding the robe and pulled his partner to him with a strength to which he gave no heed. He never had to worry about hurting Doyle with the power of his passion, his needs, or even his love. Doyle came against him with a hard strength and matching need of his own, and warmth enveloped Bodie right down to his toesies.

I love you, he thought, devouring Doyle's mouth. I love you. Oh, Christ, how I love you.

And he told Doyle so, not with words, which were too hard and too inadequate, but with actions. With taking and with giving in equal measure, with strength mated to strength, and with a sweet tenderness that usurped all independence, Bodie treasured his Doyle and was cherished in return. Their bodies slicked against each other against the soft decadence of the sheets in the profligate warmth they generated and absorbed into themselves, a heat of celebration and life.

Whatever the new year would bring them to face in the way of dangers, they cemented their personal luck in those dark first hours. For good or ill, they would navigate the shoals ahead together, and, while they might die, they wouldn't come a-cropper. Not with the smeared vestiges of Doyle's luck-bringing bundles busily adhering their essences to Bodie's jacket pocket for all eternity.

No escape from it all, now, Bodie would think, ruefully, the next day when he donned his jacket and placed an unwary hand into the mucky interior of a pocket. Regarding the unprepossessing mash of cake and marzipan, leaked rum, coal, and a note that had started out pristine but was now crumpled and filthy, he would stuff it all back in and go off with a cocky grin to greet whatever grimness life served up.


End file.
